


Las Animas

by killabeez



Category: Highlander, Highlander (1986 1991 1994 2000 2007), Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, Historical, M/M, Slash, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-22
Updated: 2008-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:52:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colorado Territory, 1874. Two years after disappearing from the world, Duncan's ready to come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Las Animas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dorothy1901](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothy1901/gifts).



> Written for Sweet Charity 2007. Many heartfelt apologies for the lateness of this story, and thank you to dorothy1901 for her patience and understanding. She asked for a Duncan/Connor story -- in particular, something that referenced a throwaway line in a short piece I wrote ([FMC 10: Interpreter](http://hlfiction.net/viewstory.php?sid=20&warning=Mature%20Content)): "not to mention the half-dozen years he spent on a ranch in Colorado with Connor MacLeod." It was difficult to write this without (unintentionally) stealing from my favorite extant Duncan/Connor story, Saraid's [With the Spring,](http://www.wf.net/~gofboats/Spring.htm) which was what I was actually referencing with that line, but I loved the idea and dorothy's vision of the relationship, so I gave it my best shot.
> 
> Immeasurable love to la beta extraordinaire, elynross. Greater love hath no friend. Thank you, sweetheart.

_Colorado Territory, May 1874_

The sky was a swath of gold, the western ridge deep in shadow as Connor MacLeod guided his horse down the bank of the stream and splashed across. Cold spray leapt up, welcome on his face. The day had been warm, and Connor looked forward to a bath and a hot supper well-earned.

It had taken him the better part of the spring, but the fencing was done, the barn and hay shed finished, the grazing land ready for the four hundred or so head of young Texas cattle he hoped to buy next week. Riding home across the lowland pastures, hat tipped low against the afternoon sun, he took a deep, quiet pleasure in surveying what he'd built with his own hands, and if he troubled himself to acknowledge the isolation of the life he'd chosen here, such thoughts were fleeting. He'd never been the kind of man who needed much in the way of companionship, and he'd grown used to the wide open spaces of the west. There'd been other lives, other choices made once upon a time, and there would be again—but for now, it suited him.

His horse whickered as she sighted the barn, her step quickening. Connor chuckled and patted her neck, sharing the sentiment. "You'll get your supper, don't worry," he told her. "Did you think I'd forget you?"

They'd reached the pasture behind the house when her head came up, ears flicking; she blew a faint snort, and a few yards further on, Connor could see beyond the smaller barn to what had caught her attention. He drew up, tilting his hat to better shade his eyes against the slanting sun. A tall bay horse he didn't know was loose in the corral. Someone had worked the pump in the yard to fill up the water trough; the ground was still wet, a man's boot prints clear in the mud.

Connor rode forward, and the sense of Immortal presence hit him as a breeze lifted the hair from his neck.

He was sliding off the horse before he had a chance to fully register the sensation, hand on the Winchester slung behind the saddle as his feet hit the ground. He yanked the rifle free and scanned the vicinity, keeping his head down and the mare between him and the house. His sword was inside.

The back door of the house banged open, and heavy footsteps creaked on the front porch. "Connor?" a deep voice called.

Connor's heart was beating fast, but he would have known that voice anywhere. Apprehension gave way to a rush of warm gladness. Half-doubting the evidence of his ears, he risked a look over the mare's withers. "Duncan?"

It was him, all right. Bearded and in shirt sleeves, long hair still caught back in the braids he'd worn last time Connor had seen him, Duncan stood wide-stanced on the steps, sword in hand and six-shooter at his hip. The gun looked more out of place than the sword—Connor hadn't seen him wear one in half a decade.

At the sight of Connor, the grim expression Duncan wore gave way to a mirror of the relief Connor felt, and Connor saw a grin break over his kinsman's face. "Hiding behind your horse, now, are you?"

Connor laughed and came out into the open, striding toward him with one hand still on the mare's reins. "Very funny. I'd like to see you do better without that sword in your hand."

Duncan came down the steps to meet him; they met and clasped hands, then pulled each other into a fierce, one-armed hug and held tight.

"You're lucky it was me," Duncan said gruffly. He let go and stood back, giving Connor a once-over as if he were a sight for sore eyes, and one Duncan hadn't been sure he'd see again.

Making light of the serious business of life and death was something they'd always done, and the intensity of Duncan's relief at seeing him wasn't lost on Connor. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you," he replied. He made a note to pursue it later, and gave Duncan a once-over of his own. He looked good. Too thin, his jaw line sharp under his thick black beard, but he looked better than the last time Connor had seen him.

He met Duncan's dark eyes and revised that a little. There was still a shadow there. Not the deep despair that had haunted him two years before, but something bleak that looked like it might have settled in for the long haul.

Duncan's gaze slid away from his, and he let the mustang sniff his hand, then stroked her nose. "And who's this, then?"

Connor smiled, turning his attention to the horse. "She's fine, isn't she? I bought her from a party of buffalo hunters last spring."

"Aye, she is." Duncan rubbed her ears, and she tolerated it, but tossed her head a little, impatient for her dinner. "Did you break her yourself?"

"Heh. What do you think? She's called Blossom. Come on, let's get her settled and you can tell me what's brought you all this way."

"You didn't get my telegram, then," Duncan said as they started for the barn.

"Haven't been to town lately," Connor said with a shrug, then turned a keen, sidelong look on Duncan. "Something wrong?"

"Some _one._ "

"One of us?"

"Could be. It might be nothing, but I didn't want to take the chance." At Connor's long, measuring look, he colored faintly, and his chin came up, daring Connor to say anything. "You would have done the same."

Connor gave a short, soft laugh. It must have taken Duncan weeks by steamer and rail and stage coach. "Fifteen hundred miles? I don't think so."

It was Duncan's turn to give him a look, and a knowing smile quirked one corner of his mouth. "If you say so."

He was right, of course, and Connor didn't bother to deny it, just grinned in answer. Something slid home inside him, quiet and sure, and he allowed himself to be glad of it for a moment without the complications of worrying about why Duncan had come or how long he would stay.

In the barn, Duncan made short work of the mare's tack and rubbed her down while Connor got her fed and watered, all the while doing his best to adjust to the idea of Duncan being here. Connor had missed his clansman more than he cared to admit. He hadn't been happy about the way they'd parted, or about how determined Duncan had been to leave the mortal world behind. Duncan wasn't like him. It wasn't right for a man like Duncan to live without companionship, without connections to family and friends.

"So, what do you think?" Connor asked as they went outside into the yard. The breeze had strengthened from the south, bringing with it the cool promise of evening. They leaned against the corral fence and watched Duncan's horse make friends with Connor's saddle stock in the neighboring pasture.

Duncan surveyed the neat spread of Connor's ranch under the blue Colorado sky, the outbuildings and pastureland and neat two-room cabin with its small porch. "You always were good at this," he said, some of the tension gone from his face.

Connor shrugged, pleased. "I got tired of roaming around. Decided to try something different for a change."

"I can see why you chose this place."

Connor nodded in satisfaction. "If it was good for buffalo, it will be good for cattle." After a moment, he glanced at Duncan sidelong. "What about you?" he asked. "Had enough of living all alone in that cabin of yours?"

Duncan's expression darkened, but he grunted softly, refusing to rise to the bait. "I like the quiet."

"If you say so," Connor said, a gentle riposte in their never-ending game. He let the teasing show through, and Duncan met his look with good humor enough. Connor laughed, feeling good. He tugged on Duncan's thick beard, thinking his cousin had never looked so little like the handsome rake he'd once been. "You look like a bear, you know that? I hardly recognize you under there."

Duncan aimed a cuff at his head, bear-like, and Connor ducked and slipped out of reach. "Keeps me warm," Duncan grouched, but he couldn't suppress a grin. "Just because you can't grow a beard."

"Oh, ho, is that how it's going to be?" Connor laughed, settling back into a defensive pose. Duncan shifted his weight in answer, and Connor saw the light of challenge come up in his eyes. "Come on then, old man," Connor dared him. "Let's see who's got the better deal."

Duncan lunged for him without warning, but Connor, with his younger, slighter build, was faster. He leapt away, then took off running for the grassy field beyond the house. In a flash, Duncan had shed his coat and the chase was on.

Duncan was leaner and quicker on his feet than Connor remembered and caught him under the tamarack trees with a headlong dive and a long arm snaked around Connor's waist. Connor's breath went out in a whoosh; instinct brought his shoulder down and they rolled in a tangle that ended with Duncan on top, grinning fiercely and struggling to get Connor's legs pinned. Connor got an elbow up and jabbed Duncan firmly in the solar plexus, hard enough to knock the breath out of Duncan in turn. It was enough to allow him to twist free, and he scrambled back, laughing. "You're out of practice," he teased.

"I'll show you out of practice," Duncan growled, rolling easily to his feet. He unbuckled his gun belt and cast it into the grass, then curled his fingers sharply in a _come on_ gesture, settling into a defensive stance.

Connor matched it, and they started to circle. "Heh," Connor laughed, "remember the last time we did this?"

"How could I forget?" Duncan shot back. "I'm the one who ended up with his nose broken."

"And whose fault was that?"

Duncan feinted; Connor responded with a countermove, which Duncan slipped after a moment's grappling.

"That's not how I remember it," Duncan said. "Who was it thought the deck of a ship in the middle of the Atlantic was a good place to spar?"

"And who's the one who brought the Madeira on board?" A quirk of Duncan's eyebrows conceded the point. Connor laughed, then tried a move of his own. Duncan blocked it, grin widening a fraction as if to say _nice try_. "At least it was hand to hand, not swords," Connor added.

"Lucky for me," Duncan countered. "I might not have a nose."

"Lucky for me, what are you talking about? I'm the one who'd have to look at you."

Duncan didn't credit that with an answer, putting his concentration into the physical contest instead. Connor shut up as well, abandoning the attempt to distract in favor of guarding himself against his student's aggravatingly long reach. They'd both had a long day on horseback, but as the challenge grew more serious, weariness fell away and they fell into the long-remembered rhythm of attack and defense, of knowing one another's strengths and weaknesses better than anyone else could.

Connor hadn't intended to test him, but the habitual roles of teacher and student were hard to break, and he found himself gauging Duncan's reactions closely. Duncan was out of practice, but he was also honed into fighting condition by years of living with the Sioux and in the wilds of the northwest, dependent on his own speed and wits for survival. It balanced out—or it should have. But in spite of the familiar light of challenge in his kinsman's eyes, Connor's first real effort at catching Duncan off balance struck home, and Duncan hit the ground, hard.

Connor put it down to Duncan's rustiness and put out a hand to help him up, surprised when Duncan didn't try to use it to throw him down in turn. They circled again, testing one another's reflexes.

The second time Duncan went down, Connor felt a twitch of aggravation. He helped Duncan up again, bouncing back on the balls of his feet. "Come on, you're not even trying."

"Just luck," Duncan said easily. "Let's see you do it again."

A third time was more than luck, and they both knew it. This time Connor kept his arm angled hard against Duncan's throat, pinning him. He wasn't playing any more, and he could see from the angry, defensive set of Duncan's jaw that Duncan knew it, too.

"Enough," Duncan said, his voice rough.

Connor pressed harder. "Who's the teacher here? I'll say when it's enough." He let go with a shove for emphasis and got to his feet, making a sharp, impatient motion toward himself. "Come on."

Duncan was slow to get to his feet, brushing grass and dirt off his clothes. His expression had darkened, the grin long gone. He looked like he wanted to protest, but he knew better, and settled with grim resignation into circling again.

They exchanged a series of fast, hard blows, deflecting and counterattacking. The sun rode low on the ridge to the west, shadows lengthening around them as Connor pushed Duncan hard, not softening his blows. He kept at it even when he could see that Duncan was frustrated and angry, his pride as bruised as the rest of him, both of them too aware of how long it had been since Connor had pushed him like this—how long it had been since he'd needed to. It wasn't lack of skill, not really; the muscles remembered even when the man forgot. This was something else. Something worse.

At last Connor shifted his weight and caught Duncan behind one heel, pinning him to the ground with his body.

"What did you think?" Connor snapped, shaking him by the shoulders. "That you could forget everything I taught you? That you didn't need to know how to fight any more, safe on your island where no one could hurt you?"

Duncan didn't fight him, just lay still, as if he deserved Connor's anger even as he rebelled against it. "You saw what happened," he said, accusing. "You know why I left."

"I know you're better than this," Connor said, more bitterly than he meant to. "I know you owe it to yourself to remember who you are." Adrenalin and the heat of the fight coursed through him, and he remembered the man Duncan had been, the hotheaded, passionate young buck who thought he could right every wrong, fight any injustice. He looked for that man now and didn't find him, seeing instead a man who had locked away the best parts of himself because it was easier than facing the hard task of learning to live again. He knew what that felt like, too well.

Without thinking, he reached down and pressed his hand between Duncan's legs, finding the vulnerable heat there.

Duncan stiffened, outrage hot in his expression. "What the hell are you doing?"

Connor grasped him there, feeling the way Duncan responded to the touch of a friendly hand despite himself. No doubt he'd been living like a monk up there in his self-imposed exile. "How long's it been since you let yourself feel anything like this?" he demanded.

Duncan held himself still with obvious effort, color staining his cheeks. Through gritted teeth, he grated out, "It's none'a your concern."

"It's not natural for you, Duncan. Can't you see that? No more than laying down your sword."

"Dammit, Connor." Duncan bit the words out, anger warring with the embarrassment in his face. He looked like he wanted to shove Connor off of him, but Connor's merciless grip on his privates made escape impossible. His jaw clenched. "You've won. Isn't that enough?

Connor could feel the heat of him rising up under his palm, and his own body flushed a little in response, but he ignored it, gripping Duncan hard. "It's not always about winning. Sometimes it's about remembering how to live."

"Yeah, well, maybe I—" Duncan broke off, biting the words back as if they'd betrayed him.

"Maybe you what?" Connor demanded.

Duncan averted his gaze, refusing to meet Connor's eyes. "Maybe I don't want to remember."

Connor held him fast, intimate proof of the lie. Duncan was hard in his grasp. "You don't mean that."

"Says you."

"At least part of you agrees with me," Connor said, squeezing him for emphasis.

"Maybe," Duncan grated out. "What's your point?"

Duncan's gaze met his, then, and something sparked deep within his kinsman's dark eyes, rising to the challenge the way Connor remembered, the way he'd hoped to see again. There was the Duncan he knew, the old fire banked, but not gone. Relief kicked hard in his chest, and this time he let himself believe in it.

Their eyes locked and held. They smelled of sweat and leather and horse, and Duncan had grass seed in his hair. Connor's heart sped, and he found himself remembering a night long ago, an inn outside London and a fumbling, laughing ménage à trois he half-suspected Duncan had been too drunk to remember in detail.

The sudden ebb of Connor's anger left him feeling shaky and too warm, a deep throb of anticipation and unexpected need pulsing low between his legs. It had been a long time for him, too, and he wasn't ready for the sudden intensity he'd roused between them.

He wasn't the only one. At the warning that tightened in Duncan's expression, he checked himself, letting Duncan go and shifting back on his heels. A wry grin quirked one corner of Connor's mouth, and he let a soft laugh escape.

As they'd done so many times in the past, Duncan answered the look in kind, and the tension between them diffused in shared understanding.

"Guess I probably should have thought of that beforehand, eh?" Connor said, scratching self-consciously at the back of his neck.

"Aye, you should," Duncan said in fervent agreement. He pushed himself up on one elbow, hair tangled and shirt torn. He huffed out a sigh, half frustration, half long-suffering affection. "Get off me, you idiot, if you want to keep your virtue."

"Too late," Connor said, but he backed off, getting to his feet and reaching out to give Duncan a hand up. Duncan accepted it, and with it the unspoken apology.

They dusted themselves off, not quite looking at each other; Connor's awareness of Duncan prickled along his skin, rested heavy in his belly. He tried not to be too obvious about the way his eyes wanted to follow as Duncan retrieved his gun belt and his coat, about the new possibilities that presented themselves as insistently and vividly as possible as they headed toward the house. It was the last thing he'd expected, and he still didn't trust it, but there was no denying the way Duncan had responded, or the insistent hunger he'd felt in return.

"Don't look at me like that," Duncan said irritably, catching him at it out of the corner of his eye.

Connor held up a hand in protest. "I'm not."

"Like hell you're not," Duncan muttered, but the look on his face spoke more of a need for time to get used to the idea than it did of denial. Connor could live with that.

He couldn't help the sudden lift in his spirits, or the warm, light feeling that flowed through him. He smiled a little and tucked his hands in his pockets, innocence embodied. "So," he said as they went inside, "how long did you say you were staying?"

* * *

Supper was venison stew with wild roots, sweet onions, and dumplings, and Duncan ate enough for two men. Connor laughed and asked how long it had been since he'd had a decent meal, to which Duncan replied simply, "Too long." When pressed, he admitted he hadn't even stopped overnight in Denver, buying the first decent saddle horse he could find and riding out the same afternoon.

"So tell me about this Immortal," Connor said, as they finished eating and rose to clean the plates. "What's got you so riled that you'd cross half the country to warn me?"

Duncan's manner changed, a hardness coming into his expression that Connor recognized as bad news for anyone who got in his way. "It might not be who I think it is," he said, digging in his pocket and coming up with a folded square of newsprint. He handed it to Connor. "Like I said, it might be nothing. But I couldn't take that chance."

Connor wiped his hand on his shirt and took the clipping, reading it carefully. It was from _The Washington Standard,_ dated a month before, and detailed the carnage wrought by a gang responsible for several train and stage coach robberies that spring. They'd left a trail of blood from Santa Fe to Idaho Springs; one of the perpetrators had finally been caught in a saloon in Trinidad and was being held for trial. "I heard about this," he said, remembering the talk that had passed around the poker table last time he'd gone into town. "What makes you think there's an Immortal involved?"

"Melvin Koren," Duncan said, spitting it out as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth. "I helped the Rangers track him back in sixty-seven, a little town called Agua Dulce, Texas. He almost took my head. Then he slipped the noose and disappeared." He took the newspaper clipping from Connor and tucked it back in his pocket. "I thought he went to Mexico, or maybe left America entirely, but this sounds like it could be him."

Connor looked at him doubtfully. "What, because he robs trains? That's not much to go on." Duncan shrugged, and Connor studied him more closely. "This Koren must have made quite an impression."

Duncan grimaced. "Let's say I didn't like the idea of leaving it to Fate."

Connor read between the lines: Duncan must have gone into town for supplies and spotted the article in the paper. Trinidad was less than thirty miles from here. Whatever history lay between Duncan and this Melvin Koren, it was bad enough that Duncan hadn't been willing to risk Connor crossing paths with him unwarned, or without a friend to watch his back.

If that's what it took to drag Duncan out of the woods and back into Connor's life, Connor would take the gift and be grateful. He hoped Duncan was wrong, but it scarcely mattered now. "We'll ride out at first light," he said, knowing Duncan wouldn't rest until he'd seen the man they'd arrested with his own eyes.

Duncan gave a short nod, his expression tight.

It was getting chilly as night came on, and Connor thought Duncan probably hadn't had a hot bath in longer than he cared to think about. "Come on," Connor said, a peace offering. "I've got something I think you'll like."

Duncan's face lit up when he saw the porcelain tub.

"What's the matter?" Connor laughed, seeing his expression. "Afraid you don't remember how?"

"Very funny," Duncan shot back. His gaze slid to Connor's for a moment, his expression turning guarded as the practicalities presented themselves. "You know, I can do this without your help."

Connor held up his hands, shaking his head and taking a step back. "Fine, don't thank me. See if I care."

Duncan shook his head in disgust. "Go in the other room, would you?"

"You sure?" Connor asked, half hopeful.

"Connor—" Duncan broke off, color rising. He met Connor's eyes. "It's been a long time for me. And you and I..." He stopped. "You're important to me."

"Well, good. That makes two of us."

"I know. But I don't know if this is such a good idea."

"What? Taking a bath?" He chuckled. "Trust me, it's a good idea."

"You know what I mean." Uncomfortable now under Connor's gaze, he gestured between them. "You and me."

"Duncan." Connor caught his gaze, putting all of their history into it, all of the friendship and the brotherhood and the trust. "Relax, will you? I'm not going to do anything you don't want to do. Nothing's changed."

Duncan regarded him for a long moment; at last he nodded, and scratched a hand through his beard. "Well. Good."

"You want a razor for that bear pelt?" A grin played around Connor's mouth, though the truth was that he could taste Duncan's scent against the back of his throat, and he wanted nothing more than to get into the bath with him and learn what would make him lose the ability to form words other than Connor's name. He wasn't sure when the vague impulse had become an all-consuming imperative, but there was no denying it had come home to roost, and he could only hope that either Duncan would come around, or it would fade in time. He didn't like to think about what it would do to their friendship if it didn't.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," Duncan conceded.

"You never know," Connor said, considering. "How do you even know what's under there?"

"Guess I'll have to risk it," Duncan said with a grin. He grabbed the pail and started for the door. "Build up the fire, would you?"

Connor was a saint by his reckoning, leaving Duncan to his bath in peace, then taking his own in solitary penance. When he was finished he dumped the tub out in the yard and added wood to the fire, pulling on clean long johns before venturing into the bedroom, where Duncan read one of Connor's books by lantern light. Anticipation pooled warm in Connor's belly, and he damped it down with effort. Clean shaven, hair spread out damp across his broad shoulders, Duncan looked up as he came in, his newly-bare face a study in conflicted impulses.

"I could sleep on the floor," he offered when he saw Connor's expression.

"Don't be ridiculous," Connor scoffed. They'd shared a bed, a blanket, a hayloft a hundred times, if not more—he wasn't about to push Duncan out into the cold, or give up his own bed if he had a choice about it.

It wasn't the easiest thing in the world, but it wouldn't kill him, Connor thought, putting out the lantern and settling in beside the one person in the world he cared most about—the one person he'd least expected to show up on his doorstep when he'd woken up this morning. This thing between him and Duncan wasn't new, not really. He just hadn't thought about it in so long, he barely knew what to do with it. Now, with the warm reality of Duncan in his bed and the vivid memory of Duncan's body hot and responsive beneath his, he found himself remembering a hundred barely acknowledged, fleeting moments over the years when he'd thought about what it would be like, when he'd let himself wonder whether they'd be as good together in bed as they were when they fought, whether Duncan had ever given in to curiosity and explored the pleasures to be found between himself and another man.

"Stop thinking so loud," Duncan said, shifting close in the dark. "You're making my head hurt."

"I didn't say anything," Connor argued, squeezing his eyes shut and keeping fast to his own side of the bed. "You're imagining things."

"Oh, you think so," Duncan said.

"I know so," Connor shot back. "Be quiet, will you? I'm trying to sleep."

Duncan grunted in answer. Connor stared into the dark and listened to the far-off howls of coyotes. Sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

They left at first light, the morning chill in their lungs and the promise of rain in the air. Connor packed simply—slices of ham and dark bread to sustain them on the trail, his hunting rifle in case they came across rabbits or grouse, and his sword in case they encountered bigger game of the Immortal variety. They each brought their six-shooters, as well, and extra rounds. Connor didn't expect to need them, but with cowboys and every sort of fortune-seeker crowding into the towns these days, it sometimes helped to wear your iron where it could be seen.

The promise of a wet night sleeping out didn't appeal, so he and Duncan agreed they'd stay overnight in town. It saved them having to carry much in the way of extra supplies, and before long, they were heading up into the foothills under a gray, billowing sky.

North and east, they picked up the old military trail that crossed the high plains. It was scored with the hooves of the cattle herds that used it now, signs of the ever-growing trade on which Connor had chosen to lay his current stake. The landscape was as green as it ever got, pale grasses and stands of cottonwood and pine spread out to the base of the mountains that rose white-capped in the distance. It was nothing like Scotland, not really, but the high plateaus and the rocky, wild hills always made him think of the highlands—not that he would have admitted as much to Duncan. His kinsman had always been ridiculously sentimental about the old country.

Duncan was tense and uncharacteristically quiet on the ride, and Connor couldn't be sure whether it was preoccupation with their quarry. or whether he'd been alone too long and fallen out of the habit of talking. It was a hazard Connor knew well. He didn't think it had anything to do with the unresolved matter between them, but it was hard to tell.

The wind picked up after midday. Stopping beside a stream, they watered the horses, then made short work of their lunch, watching the clouds build up to the northwest.

"What do you plan to do?" Connor asked, though he figured he could guess. It was something to say. "If we find out it is Koren."

Duncan shook his head shortly. "It won't be Koren, not if they're still holding him after all this time. But it might be one of his men."

"And what if Koren's changed his name?"

Duncan finished his lunch and stood up, dusting crumbs off. He went to his horse and checked his girth, tugging at the saddle blanket to straighten it. "In Texas, Koren's men called him "El Gato." I'm guessing that'll ring a bell."

Connor was dubious. "If they've been holding this man since last month, what makes you think he'll know anything useful?"

"If it's him, then we'll track him. I did it once before, I can do it again." He pulled the gelding away from a patch of buffalo grass and shot Connor a sidelong look. "I don't expect you to come with me, Connor. You've got plans, you've got work to do. I can handle Koren."

Connor grunted and said nothing, rising to his feet and checking his own mount before swinging into the saddle. He'd stayed out of it when Duncan had ridden after Kern, half-crazed with the thirst for revenge. This was different, Duncan's hatred of Koren less personal, but Connor wasn't about to make the same mistake. He'd seen what the months of headhunting had cost his clansman. If it was Koren—and privately, Connor doubted it—the cattle could wait a month or two.

The rain caught up with them an hour before sunset, and they were more than ready for a fire and a hot meal by the time they rode into town. Connor didn't bother asking where they were headed first. He took them straight to the jail, knowing Duncan wouldn't want to put it off until the following day.

The lack of Immortal presence told them at once it wasn't Koren. Duncan tried to get a look at the holding cells, but they were in the back, and the sheriff's deputy didn't much like the looks of them, his face closing up in an ugly frown when he saw Duncan's braids. Luckily, Connor knew the sheriff, and after a few minutes discussion, was able to convince the deputy to tell them where he might be found.

After a detour by the livery and the exchange of coin to lodge the horses for a night, they booked a room at the hotel, then hurried through the rain and the deepening mud of the main street to the saloon across the way.

"A few minutes with him, that's all I ask," Duncan said, after they'd bought the man a drink and Duncan had told his story of tracking Koren with the Rangers. "What I need won't take long."

The sheriff looked from Duncan to Connor, considering. At last, he shrugged. "I suppose it won't do no harm to let you talk to him. Can't say I put much stock in what he has to say, lyin', thievin', good-for-nothing that he is, but if you want to try your luck, be my guest."

* * *

"Thank you, gentlemen," Connor said a quarter of an hour later, giving a tip of his damp hat to Sheriff Roberts and his sour-faced deputy. He touched Duncan's elbow and drew him toward the door. "We appreciate it. Enjoy your evening."

Outside, the rain had started to let up. The sound of glasses clinking and laughter wafted up the street from the hotel's saloon; Connor slung an arm around Duncan's shoulders, feeling the tension there. "It was a long shot, anyway," Connor said. "You said so yourself. Come on, let me buy you a drink."

Over a passable supper, a beer, and what passed for good whiskey around these parts, Duncan finally shook his head and broke his brooding silence. "You were right," he sighed at last. "It wasn't much to go on."

A girl came to clear their plates, and Connor poured them each another. "If I didn't know you better, I'd swear you sound almost disappointed."

Duncan frowned. "It's not that. I feel foolish, that's all." At Connor's fond look, he shifted irritably in his chair. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Connor smiled over the rim of his glass. "You were worried about me. Admit it."

Duncan's frown deepened. "No, I wasn't." He tossed the whiskey back in one shot, and reached for the bottle.

"Yes, you were," Connor said.

"No," Duncan insisted with a glare, "I wasn't." He drank the third shot without much more hesitation than he had the first two. His eyes slid to Connor's, then away. "Just didn't like the thought of that son of a bitch back in business, and no one to stop him."

"If you say so," said Connor with a shrug. "I'm sure me being here had nothing to do with it."

Duncan rolled his eyes. "You can believe that, if it makes you happy."

Connor laughed. "Are we getting drunk, then?" he asked, pouring them both another at Duncan's nod.

"Best idea I've heard all day."

"You want to know what I think?"

"Not especially," Duncan muttered, "but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"I've humored you this far—"

"Excuse me?"

Connor shot him a quelling look, pausing with the bottle over Duncan's glass. "You heard me." He resumed pouring, eyes back on the task at hand. "I've humored you this far, now I want you to listen to what I have to say."

Mouth set in a sullen curve, Duncan said, "Go on."

Connor set the bottle down and sat back in his chair. He rested his elbows on the chair's arms and cradled the whiskey between his hands, studying Duncan in the warm light of the gas lamps. "Come home with me," he said, all trace of teasing gone. "Work the ranch with me, get your hands dirty. Remember what it's like to live in the world."

Duncan stared at him for a long moment. Connor let him, not trying to hide anything. At last Duncan leaned back, taking a sip of his whiskey and turning the idea over. "That's want you want?" he asked finally. "You and me under one roof, arguing, making each other crazy half the time?"

Connor nodded. "It's what I want."

Duncan swallowed. Their eyes met, and Connor knew Duncan understood what he was asking. What he wanted more and more the longer he thought about it.

"Connor," Duncan said, his voice rough.

Connor gestured with his glass, sensing Duncan was seriously considering it. "Come on, do as I say for once. What could it hurt?"

It was a measure of how much Duncan was feeling the whiskey that he didn't argue. "We'll probably kill each other," he concluded glumly, finishing off his shot, but Connor recognized victory when he heard it.

"Probably," he agreed. He watched Duncan hit the whiskey bottle again, spilling a little, and raised his eyebrows. "You might want to slow down there," he warned. He was willing to bet Duncan hadn't touched hard spirits in years, and he'd already downed a good measure in a matter of minutes.

Duncan shot him a look. "Give me one good reason," he said, a grin playing around his lips.

Connor could think of several, but if Duncan needed a bit of liquid courage, who was he to argue? They'd known each other two hundred and fifty years, but this was uncharted territory. Connor felt sure they'd make it work as long as they were in it together. He couldn't deny a certain flutter of anticipation in his belly at the thought of the bed waiting for them upstairs. They'd have to be quiet, but something told him this time Duncan wouldn't fight it.

He tossed back the whiskey in his glass, feeling the heat of sudden awareness in his face. Maybe Duncan had the right idea.

* * *

On second thought, Duncan should have listened to him. Connor stumbled under Duncan's near dead weight as they tried to navigate the stairs. They were both going to be sorry in the morning.

Right now, though, Duncan was feeling no pain. Connor winced as Duncan started singing again into Connor's shirt collar, a nearly unrecognizable rendition of "The Flying Trapeze." They staggered making the turn into the hallway upstairs, and Duncan caught himself against Connor's waist, then turned his head and hummed into Connor's neck.

"You smell good," he said.

"Shh," Connor warned, trying to avoid Duncan's questing mouth and hustling him down the hall. "Cut it out. You want to get us run out of town?"

"Noh," Duncan said, rolling his forehead against Connor's shoulder and holding tighter to Connor's middle as they reached the door to their room. "I want to see if you taste as good as you smell."

Connor huffed out a sigh. With a glance down the hall, he pushed Duncan off him and propped him against the wall, fumbling with the key. "Come on, Casanova," he said, dragging at Duncan's belt and doing his best to get them safely behind closed doors. "Let's get you to bed."

Inside, he aimed Duncan at the bed, and Duncan went down like a sack of potatoes. He made no effort to help as Connor started to undress him. "You know what your problem is?" Connor said, as he struggled to get his drunken kinsman out of his coat and boots.

Duncan, sprawled out on the bed and giggling quietly to himself, shook his head. "Nope."

"Your problem is you never quit while you're ahead."

Duncan frowned. "Yes, I do," he said to the ceiling.

"No," Connor said, yanking Duncan's second boot off and casting it aside. "You don't."

"Yes, I do," Duncan insisted. He propped himself up on one elbow, frowning blearily down at Connor, who knelt between his legs. "Besides, you're one to talk."

"Me?" Connor protested.

"Remember that time in Dublin?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You remember. Who was it put everything we had on one hand of cards?"

Connor made a face. He pulled Duncan's coat out from under him with a sharp tug and got up to hang it on the back of the door. "You ass, that was two hundred years ago."

"Yeah," Duncan said, smug, "and you lost."

Connor shook his head in disgust. "You're impossible."

Duncan smirked. "Guess you'll have to live with it."

It was too easy, with Duncan spread out and uncoordinated, reflexes shot to hell and limbs lax with intoxication, but Connor didn't let that stop him. He closed the distance to the bed in two strides. Welcoming the feel of Duncan spread out beneath him, Connor lay down on top of him, one thigh between Duncan's pinning him to the bed. "We'll see about that," he muttered, thrilling to the freedom of being able to do what he'd wanted to since the moment he'd laid eyes on Duncan the day before.

"Connor," Duncan said, voice thick; eyes heavy-lidded now, he turned his head and reached up, motions uncoordinated, to hold Connor's face still bare inches from his own. What he was thinking, Connor could only guess. By slow increments, Duncan closed the distance between them and pressed his mouth, warm and relaxed with the whiskey, to Connor's.

It was more affection than passion, but it was sweet, and Connor closed his eyes and let the kiss deepen. In his long life, Duncan was the one thing he'd done right—he'd always believed that. For this moment, the two of them safe and warm in the flickering lamp light, the rain a quiet drumming on the window, Connor let himself relax into the certainty of homecoming.

They kissed, slow and warm, for what felt like an Immortal lifetime; Connor couldn't have said how much time passed before he realized Duncan's mouth had slackened beneath his and his breathing had slowed, evening out as he sank into a deep, inebriated sleep.

Connor broke away and huffed a disbelieving laugh. "Oh, you didn't." But he had, and Connor knew he should have seen it coming. It wasn't the first time Duncan had drunk too much and passed out on him, but this was unfair. Connor felt the deep, barely tapped heat of arousal like a steady hum inside, and he banged his head against Duncan's shoulder in frustration. Dead to the world, Duncan never stirred.

Connor groaned and pushed himself to his feet. With effort, he managed to get Duncan the rest of the way on to the bed and shoved toward the far side. He undressed, then washed up at the basin, the cool water welcome on his face and neck. When he was finished, he put out the lamp, then crawled in beside Duncan's inert form and tried not to notice how warm Duncan was, or the way his hair held the smell of the rain.

Lying in the dark listening to his kinsman's soft snores, Connor's frustration eventually subsided to simple gratitude. They were lucky, he and Duncan. Immortals didn't get to have families, not for more than a handful of years at a time. These last few years, Connor had done what Duncan asked: he'd stayed away, though it hadn't been easy. Of the two of them, Duncan was the one who'd always been quick to laugh, to make sure Connor didn't take himself too seriously, and it had scared Connor more than he'd wanted to think about, seeing Duncan give in to despair after his wife and tribe had been slaughtered. Connor hadn't wanted to believe Duncan could give up like so many other Immortals he'd known.

Now Duncan was back in his life, and Connor didn't much care why, or on what terms. What he cared about was right here, the two of them arguing and watching each other's backs and reminding each other that life went on.

He hoped he lived long enough to learn whether Duncan did other things as well as he kissed.

* * *

"Go on," Duncan groaned, arm over his eyes. "Say it, and get it over with."

"Say what?" Connor asked from the doorway, pretending innocence.

"You know what."

"Oh, you mean I told you so?" Connor closed the door behind him and threw his hat on the chair. He came and sat on the bed, nudging an elbow into Duncan's side. "Come on, it can't be that bad. You are Immortal, after all."

"Could have fooled me," Duncan said. He caught a whiff of what Connor held in his hand and cracked an eye open. "Is that coffee?"

"Depends," Connor said, holding it out of reach. "If it is, will it get you out of bed?"

"No promises," Duncan growled, but sat up, taking the mug.

It took the younger MacLeod the better part of an hour to get up and make himself into something approaching human, but the day was still young when they hit the trail, heading for home.

Connor was in fine spirits. The clouds had lifted some time in the night, and the day had dawned bright and clear, warm enough for shirt sleeves. He'd taken the opportunity while Duncan slept to stock up on a few things, and their saddle bags now bore enough staple supplies to see them through the first part of the summer. A few bottles of port and fine whisky were tucked in among the sugar and flour and salt, a fact that Duncan would probably appreciate better once he'd had a chance to recuperate from the night before.

In the mid-afternoon, they left the trail and detoured up into the hills, stopping to rest beside a blue alpine lake. Duncan didn't have much interest in food, but he watered the horses while Connor ate, then stripped his shirt off and lay belly down on a big rock that stuck out over the lake, dunking his head and shoulders into the icy water. Connor laughed at his whoop of shock when he came up, and watched Duncan shake himself like a hound. His dark hair streamed rivulets over his chest, his nipples drawing tight from the cold.

Connor felt the sun's warmth as a caress, his whole body responding to the sight of Duncan bare-chested, free, happy. He wanted to lay Duncan down in the grass and make the most of it.

"You should be careful," he said, as Duncan came over, drying himself off with his shirt. "You never know what kinds of creatures might live in these mountain lakes."

Duncan gave him a look. "What are you talking about?"

Connor shrugged, letting his eyes roam freely. "I'm saying, you never know. You throw in a lure, something might bite."

With an exasperated shake of his head, Duncan pulled his shirt on, leaving it unbuttoned. He pulled his wet hair free, then reached a hand out to help Connor up. His grip was warm, solid; when Connor was on his feet, Duncan held on a moment longer than was strictly necessary. "Sometimes I worry about you," he said.

"Is that so," Connor said, though he couldn't have said for certain what they were talking about any more.

"Yes," Duncan said, his eyes intent on Connor's mouth and a smile in his voice. "That's so." Still holding on to Connor's hand, Duncan leaned forward and kissed him.

It didn't last long, or at least, not long enough as far as Connor was concerned; the feel of Duncan's tongue touching his was as arousing as it was unexpected. If their kissing last night had been languid and affectionate, this was something else. It sent a pulse of heat straight to Connor's sex, and he felt himself grow hard.

Duncan pulled away and seemed to be gauging his reaction. Unnerved, but unwilling to give Duncan the satisfaction of seeing the effect he'd had, Connor forced a laugh and shoved Duncan back, playful. "What was that for?"

Duncan's eyebrows rose. "If you don't know, maybe I should reconsider."

That smile was still playing around his mouth, and it made Connor want to do things to him no decent society would tolerate.

"Maybe you're doing it wrong," he tried, hoping Duncan would get the hint.

"Like you could do better," Duncan countered, his voice a low growl, daring him to prove it.

It wasn't the best idea; they weren't that far off the trail, and it wasn't inconceivable that someone might happen along. But Connor was past caring. He grasped Duncan by the belt loops and pulled him in, loving the feel of Duncan's bare, warm chest and the clean smell of his sweat. Duncan seemed a little stiff, but he went willingly, and didn't pull away when Connor leaned in and kissed him back, hand spread against the warm hollow at the base of his spine. Duncan's lips parted and he let Connor explore his mouth, meeting Connor's tongue with his own in touches that were first tentative, then sure.

At last Connor fell back. He could feel the way his heart was racing, and for a moment it was hard to remember whether he'd been the one proving something to Duncan or the other way around.

"Does it feel strange?" he asked, searching Duncan's face. "You and me?"

"A little," Duncan admitted. "You?"

"A little. But good," he added. He reached out and took Duncan's hand, bringing it between his legs to feel the hardness there. "Really good."

Duncan made a soft sound and leaned forward, turning his face into Connor's throat. "Connor," he said, and Connor could feel the heat in his face as he let himself explore the shape of Connor's arousal.

"What's the matter?" Connor said, voice rough. His hand found Duncan's hair and knotted there at the base of his skull. "If it's being out of practice you're worried about, trust me, you're not the only one."

Duncan breathed a laugh. "No, you idiot. I just wish we were home already."

He was right. It was risky, out in the open like this. The risk only served to intensify Connor's urgency, and he decided right then and there, he was done waiting.

"Come on," he said, pushing Duncan back toward the wide, sun-warmed rock. "Enough talking."

"What?

Connor grinned, blood singing with anticipation. "You heard me. If we're going to do this, let's do it. Show me what you've got."

If it started as an exercise in one-upmanship, each of them doing his best to prove something with the teasing of their tongues and the rough caress of callused hands, it wasn't long before eagerness and long privation overcame them both. Connor, hungry to get his hands on more of Duncan's sun-warmed skin, pushed him down and unfastened his belt, stripping his pants down around his knees.

"Why didn't we do this before?" Duncan said, voice hoarse, when Connor knelt with his hands on Duncan's thighs.

Connor looked up, momentarily caught by the sight of Duncan flushed and aroused, the uncertainty that warred with hunger in his face.

"Does it matter?" he said, hearing the roughness in his own voice for what it was.

Duncan reached out and touched Connor's face, then gripped him gently at the back of the neck. "No," he said at last.

Connor held his look and nodded, then leaned in and grasped him with one hand, taking Duncan's flushed prick in his mouth. Duncan held still for a moment as Connor pleasured him, then he sucked in a shaky breath and started to move.

When Duncan was close, Connor pressed his fingers into the tender flesh between Duncan's sex and his ass. Duncan made a soft, choked sound at that; Connor felt light-headed with his own arousal and the feel of Duncan's clenched hand in his hair. Hearing Duncan start to come apart, Connor fumbled the fastenings of his own trousers open, getting a hand around himself and jerking fast at the swollen head.

"Ah, Connor. God," Duncan said. He pushed up; Connor knew he was watching, and the knowledge was enough to make him moan around Duncan's sex and come in deep, shuddering spasms.

He'd meant to drive Duncan over the edge first, but luckily it didn't take much—the touch of his tongue was enough. Duncan mercifully let Connor up as he started to come, spilling fluid onto his own stomach with long, hard pulses while Connor rode out the last of his own tremors and tried to remember how to breathe. He rested against Duncan's thighs and shivered with the aftershocks.

At last Duncan groaned and shoved a little at his shoulder. "Come on. Either we move or I sleep half the afternoon right here."

"Sounds good to me," Connor said, though he was crouched in the dirt with his clothes a mess and his prick hanging out in what was far from the most comfortable position.

"Yeah, right," Duncan said, shoving him hard enough this time to dislodge him. "Come on, get dressed."

"I am dressed. You're the one who's not dressed."

"And whose fault is that?"

Connor pushed himself to his feet and fastened his trousers, then brushed himself off, for all the good it did. "I didn't hear you complaining at the time," he said, looking around for his hat.

Duncan was quiet a moment too long. Then he said, "Connor."

Connor stopped and looked up. Duncan was the first to smile, the familiar, long-missed crooked grin Connor knew better than anyone. Connor felt an answering grin break across his face. "Duncan," he said, and laughed, for the sheer joy of being known by someone so well that nothing more needed to be said.

* * *

The moon rode high as they stopped on the ridge above Connor's valley. Below, the home Connor had built waited for them with the promise of a hot meal and a comfortable bed.

"What is it?" Duncan asked, riding up alongside.

They'd said little since the afternoon. There was no need; they had plenty of time to talk about whatever they wanted to. For the first time in longer than Connor could remember, he felt like he understood what he was supposed to be doing in this time, in this place. It might not last forever, but for now, he was content.

He glanced at Duncan, that certainty warm in his chest. "Come on, I want to show you something."

Connor nudged his horse off the trail, heading not for the ranch but further along the ridge. Duncan followed, no doubt curious; he said nothing. Together they followed the upward slope of the land under the silver moonlight.

Connor found the hidden gully without too much trouble. It didn't look like much, at first glance—an old, dry stream bed, maybe, that seemed as though it would peter out after a hundred feet. It deepened instead, giving way to a steep ravine that fell into the shadow of two cliff faces, a narrow, almost non-existent track the only way down.

Halfway down the cliff, Connor stopped. Duncan drew up behind him, and Connor knew from his sharp intake of breath the moment when he realized what he was looking at.

In daylight, it would have been hard—if not impossible—to see from above. Even if there'd been an easy way to get to the plateau on the other side, and there wasn't, the jumble of ancient cliff dwellings had eroded with time until they were one with the cliff face.

Moonlight made it easier, the lines of the walls and steps and the smooth curves of the kivas down below drawn in stark chiaroscuro. An owl called softly and took flight, its silhouette silent against the pale stone.

"It's beautiful," Duncan breathed at last, sounding as though the mysterious, haunting sight had shaken him. "What people lived here, do you know?"

Connor shook his head. "Even the Ute don't know. This place was deserted long before they came to this valley. No one knows for certain whether they died, or were driven away."

"The old ones are still here," Duncan said, breathing deeply of the night, the scents of pine and sandstone. "I can feel them."

"If there were ever a place where that was true, this is that place." He glanced at his kinsman, seeing the unspoken longing in his face. "If you want to stay for a while, you can."

Duncan met his gaze, grateful. "You don't mind?"

Connor shook his head with a smile. "That's between you and the old ones." He reached out and took the other horse's reins. Duncan held his eyes a moment longer, then nodded and swung down from his horse.

"I'll come back for you in the morning?" Connor asked. The night was warm enough. It would be warmer with the two of them in the bed, but he'd been right to bring Duncan here. There'd be other nights, as many as they wanted.

"I'll be here," Duncan said simply.

* * *

Morning came; Duncan was waiting when Connor came to take him home. He looked different, like a man who had journeyed a very great distance and found his way back to familiar shores.

"I like you like this," was the first thing Duncan said as he sat behind Connor on his horse and they rode out of the canyon.

The warmth of his body was distracting. "What are you talking about?" Connor said, already thinking of all the new territory they had yet to explore.

"Your hair," said Duncan. He touched Connor's neck, a smile in his tired voice. "You cut it."

Connor huffed a laugh. "And you didn't."

"Maybe it's time," Duncan admitted.

"I think I remember how," Connor said. "If you think you can trust me."

"Not for a second," Duncan said, chuckling. "But what choice do I have?"

"You're learning." Connor glanced back over his shoulder. "Maybe I'll let you stay for a while, if you're nice to me."

Duncan fell quiet for a long moment. "I'd like that," he said, and wrapped an arm around Connor's waist.

~ end ~


End file.
